“In case they need it for the trial.”
“I’m sure they don’t need to know how my bruise changes color.”
“They might, Sadie.” She dropped a pinch of rose petals into her teacup and set it on the saucer. “Are you able to do with just the ibuprofen today?”
“Yes, Mom. I’m not addicted to painkillers. Stop worrying.”
“I’m not worrying.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, hon?”
“I think I’m ready for pancakes.”
Farmer Brian had cleaned up the parking lot and hosed it down. As far as I could see, there were no remnants of blood or glass or honey. I eased back into work, handling the customers while Daniela did the stacking and rearranging. During break, I sat on a wooden crate under the willow tree and ate a quart of strawberries while the weekend traffic crawled by like a long, impatient caterpillar looking for a sea bath and some steamers with butter.
Sissy and old Mr. Upton wandered in during the afternoon lull.
“How are you feeling, Sadie?” Sissy asked while Mr. Upton examined snap peas like a jeweler studying diamonds.
“I’m okay. Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”
“I’m still shaken up. I can’t imagine how you’re doing it, being back here.” Sissy walked around to the side of the counter and put her hand on my shoulder. I felt a tickle inside, like there was a cry trying to surface. “Take care, dear,” she said.
Mr. Upton nodded and gave me a wink before he took Sissy’s arm and shuffled toward the old Lincoln.
City people came in to load up on corn and watermelon and cheese and honey to drizzle on the cheese. After the farm stand, they would stop at Citarella for baguettes and Tate’s cookies, and then they’d cozy up on their rental porches, taking in the sea air and dressing fancy for casual dinners.
The city people probably didn’t know me or what had happened in the parking lot.
But the locals knew.
“Sadie, wow. You look so good.” Hannah S. blindsided me while I was bent over a shipment of cherries.
“Thanks, Hannah. And thanks for all the cranes.” I wiped cherry juice on my apron. “You’re really good at origami.”
Hannah flashed me a smile. “So… I’m guessing you’ll be at Shawn’s white party?”
I had forgotten about Shawn’s white party, a variation of his usual Fourth of July tradition. By the look on Hannah’s face, she was going. And I assumed all the gadflies and ruffians would be there.
“Not sure. I’ll keep you posted.”
Did you know that there are over a thousand causes of vaginal itch? Shay texted randomly.
I laughed out loud as I waited on my willow crate for Dad to pick me up.
If it had been last summer, Shay and I would have met at her house before the party. Shay would have been wearing a white strapless pantsuit with funky white hair feathers and red lipstick. We would have shown up fashionably late, and Shawn’s new girlfriend would have given us jealous looks because we’d known Shawn since he was a bucktoothed kid with ADHD and a huge Pokémon collection. We would have eaten marshmallows and vanilla milk shakes and whatever else people ate at white parties, and watched Seth and those guys do vodka shots off ice sculptures until they dove backward into the pool, messing up their crisp white linen shirts. And Shay and I would have left fashionably early to get pizza before the pizza place closed. We’d have sat on the curb in the middle of town in our dirty white clothes, eating and laughing and making fun of the people who took white parties too seriously.
But it wasn’t last summer. Shay was in California. And I’d been through an incident.
Shawn’s white party would be all lameness and emptiness.
It would be white noise.
When Dad and I pulled up in the ice cream truck, Mom was on the porch frantically waving a piece of paper.
“Maybe Grandma finally won the lotto,” I said.
“Sadie.” Mom bent to catch her breath. “You’ve been invited to be an honoree at the Rotary Club Homegrown Hero Award Luncheon.” She handed me a red-edged invitation. “This is fantastic.”
I stared at the letter.
You have been nominated for this special honor… Please join us… Lunch… Homegrown Hero… Other young community leaders nominated from local junior classes…
“Mom, I can’t go to this. I’m not a community leader. I did one thing.”
Her smile disappeared. “Of course you’re going to this.”
“Dad, please don’t make me go. I helped a baby for, like, two minutes. This is for people who do real community service.”
Dad studied the letter. “I gotta go with your mother on this one, Sadie. They selected you. It’s an honor! We have to go.”
We went back and forth over our rice and kebabs and vanilla pudding, and in the end, honor won over Please don’t make me do this.
At least I had an excuse to miss the white party. Two events in one day would be more than my spleen could handle.
FOUR
EARLY MORNING ON the Fourth of July, the day of the dreaded homegrown hero luncheon, I lay in bed searching Facebook for pictures of baby Ella. It had become a habit, something I did when I was feeling anxious. Ella’s grandmother had plastered her page with pictures, one with baby Ella holding her fingers, one with baby Ella on a swing, her sparkly pink shoes kicking up toward the sky. I clicked on every friend, every family member. The only one of him was on Ella’s mom’s page, buried in the sea of well wishes and prayer GIFs. He was standing in front of a bonfire, holding a beer, turning away from the camera. It made me cringe to see him there, looking like any guy on Facebook.
Ella’s grandmother had started a crowd fund on NeighborCare. She called it Help Tammy Make Ends Meet. Pray for Ella. They had raised only $120. It didn’t seem nearly enough.
Mom made sure we got to the luncheon nice and early. Dad dropped off my grandmothers and Mom and me in front of the main door of the country club and we walked into the lobby, which was bursting with flowers in giant vases on dark wood tables. Three women greeted us from a welcome station.
“It looks like we have an honoree here,” one of the women said loudly. “You must be Alexis.”
The woman next to her raised her eyebrows and grabbed the name tag out of her hand. “No, Linda. She’s the young lady who saved the baby. Alexis is the one who will no longer be attending.”
“Oh. I am so sorry. I just realized I didn’t make up a new name tag.” Linda smacked herself on the forehead.
“It’s okay,” I said. I glanced quickly at Mom.
The other woman printed my name on the back of the ALEXIS AHERN name tag with a Sharpie and slid the makeshift name tag into the plastic sleeve. “We are so glad to have you here, Sadie,” she said with enthusiasm.
Mom and I made our way into the dining room, where most of the crowd was gathered around the bar, sipping martinis and chardonnays. We scanned the bar area for my grandmothers.
“I can’t believe I’m a fill-in for some other girl who couldn’t make it. This is so mortifying,” I whispered.